


i tried to write your name in the rain (but the rain never came)

by tightfistofnerves



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Brotp, F/M, Sadness, idk - Freeform, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tightfistofnerves/pseuds/tightfistofnerves
Summary: “It’s almost your birthday,” Steve tries on a quiet Sunday morning. He’s leaned against the doorway looking into the common room, dressed in a plain grey sweater and even grayer pants. There are two movie tickets in his hands. He’s fiddling: this means he’s nervous.Natasha frowns, her eyes vacant and her expression blank.“Hardly matters. Don’t even know what day it is.”
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	i tried to write your name in the rain (but the rain never came)

**Author's Note:**

> yes I am still trying to cure my endgame depression. this happens sometime at the beginning of the five years. this may be a series but idk atm.
> 
> Titles: Daddy Issues by the Neighbourhood

“It’s almost your birthday,” Steve tries on a quiet Sunday morning. He’s leaned against the doorway looking into the common room, dressed in a plain grey sweater and even grayer pants. There are two movie tickets in his hands. He’s fiddling: this means he’s nervous.

Natasha frowns, her eyes vacant and her expression blank. 

“Hardly matters. Don’t even know what day it is.”

She’s wrapped up in a blanket, sitting on the couch facing the wide expanse of window, overlooking the blinding snow spread like a sheet across the stretch of field. Her legs are criss-crossed underneath her and her hands are cupped around what looked to be once a steaming cup of black tea. 

There are no longer wisps of smoke escaping the drink. Steve suspects there haven’t been for a while, and he walks over and takes the cup from her hands. It makes a harsh, clinking sound when it hits the glass of the coffee table. He sinks down next to her, placing a hand precariously along the back of the couch, just close enough that his fingertips brush the knit wool of cloth over her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch; this is a good sign.

He tosses the tickets in front of them. Knowing she can feel his gaze on her, he waits for her to speak.

Her eyes stay determinedly trained on the view when she does. The brilliant stretch of white outside reflects in the green of her pupils, making her look impossible more tired; more washed out. She doesn’t blink. “Incredibles 2?” she is seemingly trying to mock him, but her usual wit falls a little flat. “I always knew there was a child in there somewhere underneath all your senile tendencies.”

“It’s the story of a family going through challenges and hardships,” Steve begins, then pauses because he’s worried she’ll laugh at his notions, but decides he doesn’t care. “But throughout it all, they always have each other.” He keeps his gaze level with her eyes, trying to see if he can gage a reaction - any reaction - because for the past five years, Natasha has never felt more distant than she does now.

She finally bites, angling her head to look at him. Seeing him but at the same time not seeing him at all, like he’s not physically sitting there, his weight making the couch dip. Like she’s staring at a wall. “Is that what we are? A family?”

It’s a leap of faith, but Steve reaches for her hand, sure that she will flinch away now. To his surprise, she doesn’t, letting him hold it like a dead weight in his palm. He rubs his thumb across her skin absentmindedly, finding a white scar between her second and third knuckle. 

Natasha’s expression doesn’t change, but she tugs her hand away all the same. She breaks the gaze and looks down.

Steve takes a breath, the air feeling thinner around them. “I’d like to think we are,” he finally says, and he tries to keep the disconcertion out of his voice, but there’s no doubt Natasha can hear it, can probably read all him like a goddamn book by now.

But the same goes for her, and Steve know when Natasha’s about to change to subject. She never liked to stay in the same heated, emotional, intimate situation for long if she could help it. In the past, he didn’t really care because the deeper they tread into uncertain waters, the more of his own past he would have to revisit. 

It’s different now. Now, even the present is uncertain.

But Natasha has never been a fan of uncertainty or confrontation, and so she slides the movie tickets to the corner of the table and picks them up. There’s a slightly amused smirk on her face. When she meets his eyes again, most of the emptiness is gone. _Or perhaps,_ Steve thinks, _just better concealed._

“You know, December 12th isn’t even my real birthday,” Natasha tilts her head so her hair falls behind her shoulder. An impervious notion, but one carefully executed to keep the attention away from the raspiness in her voice. “S.H.I.E.L.D. came up with a random date when I joined. I think it was Coulson. Something about being Russian and being born in the winter.” 

At that she chuckles, whether it's ridiculing the stereotype or at the happier memories of SHIELD and Coulson, it’s a laugh regardless. And Steve has missed hearing her laugh. He’s the one to bite the bone this time. 

“So all these years you’ve let us celebrate you on a day that you weren’t even born on?” There’s humour in his voice. The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Stark threw you that party back at the tower, I write you a card every year, and last winter, Sam baked you a cake and everything.”

_Sam_

Notably, Natasha stiffens, her eyes glazing over again. There’s no more mirth in her expression. She focuses back on the view, unblinking, eyes becoming glassy and the snow shining in the green of -

“Natasha,” Steve says quietly, because she had finally started talking to him again and he _ruined_ it. “Nat, please I-”

“Don’t say your sorry,” she’s crying now, her whole face shining and reflecting off the light outside. Her voice is still clear; she’s never been one to allow it to crack, to show weakness. “It’s not your fault, and apologies won’t fix anything.” 

_Nothing will._ Is what neither of them say, but the unspoken words hang in the air like the frost clinging on to the corners of the window. Steve grimaces, feeling the muscle in his jaw jump. He stretches his arm so it extends fully across the back of the couch and along Natasha’s shoulders. A silent gesture. An open invitation. She stares at him first, eyes still filling with tears and her posture sagging, just a little. Unabashed, she doesn’t even bother wiping away her face. In a strange way, Steve feels grateful that she allows herself to be this vulnerable around him.

Then, she leans carefully into his chest, tucks her feet up and curls into him; smaller than he’s ever remembered her. He pulls her in, his arm strong and protective, and rests his head atop her hair, bright with red roots starting to peek through the stark blonde. He’s not sure if she’s still crying, but the front of his sweater retains a slight wetness. 

They stay like that, unmoving, watching quietness of nature outside. The sky opens up, and chucky flakes of snow start to fall out. Soon, any cracks of green in the field will disappear completely. There will be enough snow to build a snowman and tall as himself, and Steve remembers how a century ago (not for him but for everyone else), on one of the few days it snowed heavily in Brooklyn, he and Bucky built a fort and had a snowball fight. Even though it was his birthday, Bucky let him win. They had buttercream cake and hot chocolate after, while still wearing the same sticky, soaked wool clothes. It remains one of his best memories to date. 

A thought suddenly hits him, and he murmurs quietly into her hair, “when is your actual birthday? We should celebrate.”

She doesn’t speak for a while, her vacant eyes lost in the view. Then she says, “I don’t know, they never told me.” 

She doesn’t give him a chance to speak, not that there were any words he could say. Uncurling from his embrace, she stands and turns away to walk to the kitchen. There’s a certain way she rolls her shoulders back and tilts her head up that sends the silent message to Steve: _I don’t want to talk about this anymore._ He understands, knowing the pain of revisiting old memories. When he turns back to look at her, she’s throwing crumpled tissues into the trash, her face clear and unblemished once again. 

“It could still be December 12th,” Natasha says as she turns on the coffee machine, her back to him. The machine hums with energy and the strong scent of caffeine hits Steve’s nose. The warm smell seems out of place in the cool tones of the building. “Coulson had always had luck with gambling, and it would be a shame to waste the tickets, with the box office sales down and all.”

He stands and walks over to lean against the island facing her, resting his arms against the countertop. One of the chairs scrapes underneath him, the sound of metal against metal bouncing off the empty wall of the facility. 

“And besides,” she turns to face him now, coffee mug in hand and a slight twinkle in her eyes. “I would love to see Captain America cry at a children’s movie again.”

Steve scoffs, but smiles back at her. “It was one time, and who wouldn’t cry at ‘Wall-E’?” He points his finger at her in mock sincerity. “You won’t catch me slipping again, Romanoff.” 

That familiar smirk finally jumps out, and Steve wants to take a picture, print it and keep it forever. 

“You wanna bet, Rogers?”

**Author's Note:**

> reviews give me a sort of joy that words alone cannot express


End file.
